


i shall have my night (redux)

by Sparrows



Category: Pyre (Video Game)
Genre: Crippled Scholar Reader, Game Spoilers, Gen, Other, heavily implied hedwyn/reader but if you wanted you could probably read it as platonic, if you really wanted to, rewrite of an earlier fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 05:14:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13183095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparrows/pseuds/Sparrows
Summary: The lightning flared — and, for just a moment, the figure was illuminated in stark white light.It was Oralech. It had to be. It could be nobody else.An encounter on the seas of the Deathless Tempest leads to a confrontation within the Nightwings' blackwagon. Oralech has a message for his former allies.





	i shall have my night (redux)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rewrite/improvement on [an earlier fic of mine](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11888622)! I finished the game and realised I could do better, so I did.
> 
> With thanks to Tobu for beta-ing and teaching me a great deal about boats in the process. (It's probably still inaccurate. At this point, I'm throwing my hands in the air; the in-game scene was clearly not written with boats in mind.)

The stars had aligned above the Isle of Khaylmer, and that meant braving the Deathless Tempest once more. This was not the first time the Nightwings had been called to the Isle, but nobody particularly relished the thought of returning. While it was possible to navigate the edges of the Tempest if you were skilled and lucky, it remained a difficult and dangerous task. And yet it had proven unfortunately necessary this time. The Nightwings didn't have the luxury of waiting for a break in the storm — not that it ever subsided for long, having earned the name for a reason after all — and so they had to simply forge ahead regardless, and pray that the Scribes were watching.

Despite the wind, they'd touched down on some rocky little spit of land a fair distance from the Isle proper, unable to press on through the night. Known as Barb Reef, it was a desolate, rain-soaked peninsula, exposed to the wind with few comforts to be found. That night there was little sleep had by anyone; the wagon rocked unsteadily in the high winds despite it being firmly anchored with heavy pegs driven into the rock. Volfred had attempted to reassure the others that the blackwagon had seen worse conditions in its time — though it seemed as if nobody was really convinced, even Volfred himself.

Daybreak saw the continuation of their journey, but brought only slight relief from the storm. Their sole blessing was that overnight the wind had eased, somewhat, and taken the worst of the storm's waves with it; it was still bitterly cold, and the rain still lashed down in icy sheets, but the tempest seemed content now with merely making them miserable as opposed to attempting to dash the wagon to splinters against the rocks. It was a small mercy, perhaps, but one all were willing to accept.

Everybody's nerves were fraught as they picked up for the day, working as quickly as possible to pack up the wagon and secure what needed to be secured in what time was left before they had to make progress towards the Isle. Breakfast was a hasty affair, unpleasant despite Hedwyn's best efforts. There was little conversation to be had; the Nightwings passed the voyage curled up in their bunks or huddled elsewhere, doing their best to escape the cutting cold that seeped in through any cracks left open to it.

The Reader, meanwhile, had holed themself away in the blackwagon's cabin — part of the upper level, a little like the attic of a house and about as cramped as one, dedicated to the navigational systems used for land, sea or sky travel as well as the imp-powered centrifuge that kept the wagon moving. The air was slightly warmer here, but not by much, and they'd long since taken to keeping a blanket up here to ward off the worst of the chill. At some point, Tariq had joined them, strumming idly at his lute while they worked to ensure the tempest did not blow them all off-course, though he offered no conversation.

That was how Hedwyn found them: cold and mostly miserable, huddled beneath their blanket as they monitored the various instruments and dials that littered the blackwagon's console. Every so often they would reach out and adjust course, keeping one hand braced loosely against the steering. They looked up at the noise of his boots against the ladder and the wooden floor, quickly taking in how the rain had plastered his hair to his scalp and weighed down his clothes, his brows and mouth both drawn into grim lines.

"Reader," he said, breathless but with a clear undercurrent of urgent energy. "Stop the wagon. You need to come see this."

They cursed under their breath and reached out to the controls, throwing the centrifuge into reverse for a few seconds before cutting power — as good as they'd get when it came to 'stopping' in the middle of the ocean. The imps screeched in confusion amongst themselves at the sudden shift, and then settled somewhat, chittering noisily within the centrifuge. Uncertainty and outright anxiety bled off of them, amplified by the imps’ proximity to one another; the Reader felt their turmoil and pushed it aside, shrugging the thick blanket from around their shoulders and dumping it unceremoniously on the floor beside the console.

"T-Tariq," they said, a little sharper than intended, and the minstrel looked up from where he'd been pondering the tuning pegs of his lute. "Would you t-take the helm, please? Keep us st-steady and off the rocks."

With murmured assent, Tariq unfolded himself from his spot in the corner. He set aside the lute and took the Reader's place at the helm, a pale specter calmly observing the controls, making mild adjustments to hold the boat in place. Meanwhile, the wagon pitched and rolled under the Reader's feet, almost knocking them off balance as they made their way to the back of the cabin. (Not that that was a particularly hard task; a sufficiently strong wind could do it, most days.)

Hedwyn had already descended; they could see him waiting at the bottom of the ladder with his cloak pulled tight around him. The Reader sucked a breath in between their teeth, already feeling the old, familiar ache in their leg though they’d yet to set foot on the rungs at all. Their progress down was slow, but not impossible, and once they reached the bottom of the ladder they found themself leaning heavily against Hedwyn for support.

Pain flashed from their knee to their hip and down again to their ankle, exacerbated by the cold, and it took a moment of deep breathing with their face pressed to the sodden fabric of Hedwyn’s cloak before they felt capable of moving. They nodded to him, and the pair set off across the rain-slicked deck.

Though by the Reader's best reckoning, it was slightly past noon, the Tempest's stormclouds were charcoal-grey and thick enough to blot out any trace of the sun. _'Overcast'_ described it much the same way _'slightly damp'_ could describe the ocean; despite the hour of the day the world seemed as dark as night, lit only occasionally by bright flashes of lightning streaking down from the clouds and a hazy, ambient light near the horizon. The rain didn't help, either, lashing down in unrelenting torrents and turning the world into a near-solid curtain of grey at any reasonable distance.

Together the two nomads made their way to the front of the blackwagon’s deck. The wind howled around them, and the wagon rolled beneath their feet — not enough to be a cause for concern, but enough that together with the rain, it forced the Reader to slow their pace to keep their footing. If the delay bothered Hedwyn, he didn’t mention it, and once they’d reached the prow, he motioned for them to be still.

"Over there," he murmured, bowing his head closer to theirs and pointing out into the dark.

The Reader turned to where Hedwyn had pointed, resisting the urge to lean out over the side for a closer look. There they saw only the same churning, froth-capped waves they had been looking out at since arriving in this region, broken here and there by ragged rocks jutting from the water like the oversized teeth of some vast, ancient monster. Hedwyn lowered his hand slowly, frowning.

"But I'm _certain_ I saw someone," he said, using the hand he'd pointed with the shade his eyes from the rain as he squinted towards the horizon. "They were just standing there. Thought maybe they were stranded…" The wind snatched his voice away as he mumbled to himself, and the Reader looked from him to the waves and back, brows drawing together in confusion.

"There!" Hedwyn raised his voice in excitement, quickly pointing again. The Reader flinched at his sudden outburst, but didn't let go of his arm as he continued, "there. I _knew_ I wasn't seeing things." This time, when the Reader followed Hedwyn's outstretched finger, they saw exactly what he'd seen.

A figure stood atop one of the rocks. Distance and the heaving waves robbed them of all detail, rendering them little more than a black smear of a silhouette, barely visible against the storm-grey sky. They were huge, with hunched shoulders and an imposing stance, seemingly unaffected by their narrow perch upon one of the dozens of snag-tooth rocks sticking up from the waves. This time, the Reader did lean forward, both hands planted fast to the hull even as Hedwyn reached out, setting a hand to their lower back and grasping the loose fabric at the back of their tunic in an attempt to hold them steady.

The lightning flared — and, for just a moment, the figure was illuminated in stark white light.

It was Oralech. It _had_ to be. It could be nobody else.

Though they had seen him only once before, and even that had been from a distance — the night he'd stolen a Rite from the Accusers and faced the Nightwings in their place — his features had burned themselves into the Reader's mind. His hair whipped around his head, wild and pale and tangled around two sets of broad, curved horns. His raiments were soaked, but still clearly identifiable in their rust-orange and deep, dusty blue, a warped mirror to the Nightwings' own. From this distance, it had been impossible to make out his face, but they could recall it perfectly: the sneering scowl, the deep scars in chalky grey skin, the hellfire glow of his eyes.

And yet... if Oralech _had_ seen them— and surely he must have, for they were alone upon the waves — he gave no indication. He merely stood there, impassive, isolated... watching.

_Waiting._

Hedwyn tugged his cloak tighter around his shoulders, shivering hard beneath the soaked fabric. "That's trouble if I've ever seen it, my friend," he said quietly. He looked down at the Reader, who'd stopped leaning over the edge of the wagon's hull and was now staring at Oralech's silhouette. "Any bright ideas...?"

The Reader chewed the ragged edge of their thumbnail, lost in thought. In forcing them to spend a night on Barb Reef, the storm had slowed the Nightwings’ progress towards the Isle; they could ill afford further delays, lest they be unable to adequately prepare for the Rite that evening. And yet that was exactly what Oralech represented right now: a delay. Perhaps it was even intentional, his intimidating appearance meant to scare them off-course and cause them to miss the Rite. From what little they knew of him — what they had learned from Volfred, and observed from the man himself — it didn't seem impossible.

"A-As much as I'd like to talk," they began, looking up into Hedwyn's face and mirroring the grim expression they found there, "we c-can't stop. And Oralech, he, he c-can't stop us, either."

Hedwyn sighed and scrubbed both hands through his hair, pushing the sopping-wet bangs out of his face only for them to immediately be thrown back there by the wind. "All right," he said after a moment, sighing again. "You're right. Let's go."

Getting back into the cabin proved as tough as climbing down from it had been, even with Hedwyn's assistance; the chill was sinking deep into their bones, making their joints seize up stiffly as they finally crawled back into the cabin. Tariq was exactly where he’d been stood when they left, though he stepped back with little fanfare when the Reader limped over and dumped themself unceremoniously behind the controls of the blackwagon once more.

Hedwyn lingered in the cabin, his hand resting on their shoulder, palm warm through the sodden fabric. They were glad of his company, reassured by his presence — they always were, but seeing Oralech had shaken them both, and had he turned to leave, they might have gone so far as to ask him to stay.

But as the wagon got underway again, the centrifuge spinning up with a rattling hum, Hedwyn started suddenly. He leaned forward and made a quiet noise in the back of his throat, brow drawn low. "He's gone," he said, softly enough that the Reader could only blink at him in confusion. "He's... damn it, he's _gone_ ," Hedwyn said a little louder, a little more forceful. "What did he even _want_?"

True enough, when the Reader looked out of the cabin window, they saw no trace of Oralech's figure upon the rocks, or anywhere nearby for that matter. He had simply vanished, as if he’d never been there in the first place. Concern ran through them briefly; it was possible he’d lost his footing and fallen into the water, and as much as Oralech seemed to hate the Nightwings, it was hard not to feel worried for him. And yet the concern was quickly replaced with a sense of deep, sinking dread.

If Oralech had been waiting, and had vanished mere minutes after being spotted… then what had he been waiting _for_?

Unease prickled along the Reader's skin as sure as the cold already did. "Hedwyn, Tariq," they began, not taking their eyes from the rough seas ahead. "Can you, can you t-tell the others about this? Volfred, especially." They chewed on their nails again for a few moments, shoulders sinking. "I don't want to worry anyone, b-but they ought to know anyway."

Hedwyn nodded grimly, his hand squeezing their shoulder tighter. Tariq had already vanished, though they hadn’t heard him leave. The Reader lifted one hand from the wheel, their fingers ghosting against Hedwyn’s before they both pulled away. Then he turned and was gone, his footsteps heavy as he climbed down the ladder once more, leaving the Reader alone with their thoughts.

* * *

 

 

It was another two hours before the Nightwings made landfall upon the Isle. While the rain had eased off somewhat, it had not vanished entirely by the time they landed on the Isle’s shores. At the very least, it was not enough that it would impede the Rite that night, which was perhaps the best anyone could hope for.

They did not set up camp right away. A nervous tension had passed through the group in the wake of Oralech’s sudden appearance and disappearance, and it had been quickly agreed-upon that they should search the area before setting up in advance of the Rite.

Which left the Reader to watch over the blackwagon. The chill in the air meant that their leg pained them more so than usual, and clambering about the wagon while it was still on the storm-tossed sea had hardly improved it, even with Bertrude’s medicines; they’d be more of a liability than anything else, and so they’d opted to hang back and perhaps make a start on unpacking for the night while the others searched.

The steps were still slippery as they climbed up, first to the deck running about the edge of the wagon, and then into the main room itself. They turned to shut the door, grunting as the waterlogged wood refused to move smoothly, and then silence fell.

A silence soon broken by the hollow thudding of heavy footfalls, and the quiet rasp of another’s breathing.

They were not alone. Someone was here… here, alone, with them.

They had not let go of the door handle; in fact, they gripped it tighter, now, as fear raced through their veins and raised the short, fine hairs at the nape of their neck. That same fear implored them to throw the door open once more, and flee. But that was impossible.

Running was as futile now as it had always been — they had been unable to run when the constables came for them, and they had been unable to run when Hedwyn and Jodariel and Rukey had scooped them up out of the Sandfolds, and they were unable to run now.

Which left only one option: the Reader took a deep breath, let go of the door, and turned around.

Again, it was Oralech. Again, it could be nobody else. He had to stoop his head to avoid scraping his horns against the ceiling, but he moved about the wagon with an ease that could be born only of deep familiarity. He was not looking at them, had not even turned around when they’d forced the door open; rather, his attention seemed fixed upon the shelves of knick-knacks and trinkets that lined the wagon’s walls. He picked each up in turn, inspecting them, before setting them down once more. From this angle, it was impossible to see his face, leaving no way to be sure of how he felt about the clutter filling the wagon.

The Reader did not dare move. To move would be to make noise. To make noise would be to draw attention to themself. And to draw Oralech’s attention… it would be the worst thing they could possibly do. Their hands trembled where they hung loosely at their sides. How had they not seen him? How had _nobody_ seen him? Even the imps were quiet, snuffling and shuffling about on their perches in the rafters, watching Oralech with dark, wet eyes.

Oralech turned and plucked the Gries Stone out of the air just before it bumped into his shoulder. He held it delicately between two claws, as the stone began to buzz and hum in his grasp like a trapped insect demanding to be freed. He looked at it a few moments longer, turning it this way and that, letting purples and pinks play across the iridescent surface. Then he flicked it away, and it spun out of his claws with a bell-like chime, bouncing off of the wall before drifting away in a slow arc. He snorted with vague amusement at the sound, and reached for something else.

“All of these… trinkets,” he murmured. His voice was like gravel, made warped and strange the way all demons had been. “This wagon… it is most different, now.” He set down the item he had been examining — a flask of singing sands, taken from the Valley — and leaned against the desk he stood before. The wood creaked under his weight. “Welcoming, and yet… I am unwelcome, it seems.”

Oralech straightened up, shifting his balance across his hooves. The tips of his upper horns scraped the roof. “Here, in my own wagon.”

_It’s not your wagon any more,_ the Reader wanted to say. But fear stilled their tongue.

Oralech looked over his shoulder. The wagon was dimly-lit, but the candlelight was enough that they could see the furrow of his dark brow. Just as they’d remembered, his eyes glowed like the dying embers of a pyre-flame — and his gaze was fixed on the Reader. They felt trapped beneath the weight of it, pinned like some rare, exotic butterfly in a collector’s display.

It was the first time he’d directly acknowledged them since they stepped into the wagon, but somehow, the Reader got the sense Oralech had always known they were there.

There was no use in trying to hide, now. They limped forward, each footstep sounding unbearably loud above the distant patter of rain on the wagon’s canvas roof. They felt vulnerable, their lopsided gait obvious, broadcasting their inability to flee with every _tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap_. Oralech waited until they drew closer to turn around fully, and if they had felt pinned by his gaze before, they felt _crushed_ by it now.

“You. A mere shadow,” Oralech rumbled. He towered over them in every single way, and the Reader didn’t realise they were backing away from him until they felt the wall at their back. Their fingers scrabbled for any kind of grip in the soft old wood, blunt nails scraping uselessly; their knees quaked and felt insufficient to hold them up. “Tell me something,” he said. Then Oralech leaned down, burning eyes meeting their own, and asked, very gently, “Who are you, to them?”

_Who am I?_ the Reader thought. _Good question._ They swallowed, carefully, eyes darting around what little of the room they could see beyond Oralech’s considerable bulk. They could sense nothing from him. Oralech’s thoughts and emotions were a blank wall, betraying nothing, giving no purchase. _Who am I, to the Nightwings?_

“I’m — I’m their Reader,” they whispered. For a moment, they considered leaving it at that; Oralech had no right to know anything beyond that. And yet they continued. It felt vital, somehow, that they convince Oralech of their own worth — Oralech, or themself. “I’m their f-friend, too. We’ve t-tr-t— we’ve come a long way together.” A smile, small and unsteady though it was, tugged at the corners of the Reader’s lips as a wistful ache stirred behind their ribs. “I don’t… I don’t know wh-what the Nightwings were like, in your day. Volfred, he t-told me a little, b-but it’s… different, now. We’re — we’re _family_.”

Oralech snorted derisively. He shook his head, and the still-damp ends of his hair flicked back and forth under the force. “Foolish little shadow,” he sneered, straightening up. “You ought to be wary, then.” Something in his expression shifted, turned equal parts thoughtful and steely. “The Nightwings do not always treat their friends kindly.”

“Erisa,” the Reader murmured in quiet realisation, barely more than a breath — and with that single word, all at once, the gentleness in Oralech’s expression vanished. Like a flame being doused, he seemed to close himself off, his claws curling into fists and his lips peeling back from his teeth, exposing dull fangs in a snarl. But his _eyes_ — no longer were they only embers. Now they seemed to _burn_.

All at once, the Reader felt cold in a way that had nothing to do with their damp clothes, or the storm outside; this was a chill that cut through them to the soul, and it was a chill that stole the breath from them as easily as if Oralech had punched them in the gut. Had it not been for the wall of their back, they might have crumpled to the floor in a heap, their trembling legs giving way entirely. As it was, they still slid down the wall, their shoulders hunching in towards their ears and their arms drawing close to their chest — a desperate, instinctive attempt to shy away from the searing weight of Oralech’s fury.

The attempt was in vain, for Oralech once more loomed into their space. His palm slammed into the wall mere inches from their head, claws digging into the old, soft wood. The shelves jangled, their contents disturbed by the impact. The Reader made a strained, strangled noise, and could only press back against the wall as if they might push themself through it. They were effectively trapped; there was nowhere they could go, no way for them to move, for the demon had leaned in so close that his horns curled to either side of them, bracketing them in place.

This close, it was nigh-impossible not to look into Oralech’s face. His burning gaze captured their own and held it there; it was unthinkable to look anywhere else. Oralech's carefully-constructed facade had shattered, a dam bursting open, and now rage bled from him like an open wound. But underneath that — under the fury, the violence barely held in check, the twisted, furious snarl — they felt something else. Something softer, quieter.

Grief. They read him and found anger and grief at war with each other, rolling from him in intense waves that felt like they would engulf the Reader, sweep them along in the wake of Oralech's turmoil.

“I wasn’t talking about _her_ ,” Oralech snarled. He said it slowly, one word at a time, the muscles of his arm tensing a little with each one. Some primitive portion of the Reader’s brain helpfully informed them that Oralech was strong enough that he could probably crush their throat with one hand, if he wanted to, or break their bones, or any _number_ of things. They were at his mercy… and they were not certain how much of that Oralech even had.

And then he took a deep breath, and closed his eyes; the hand beside their head curled into a fist, scoring deep gouges in the wake of his claws. His entire body shook as he breathed out, in again, out in a shuddering rush — and then he opened his eyes once more, and some measure of clarity had returned to them. His snarl smoothed out into a grim, stern expression, blacker than the thunderclouds outside.

The Reader let out their own shaky breath, watching wide-eyed as Oralech stood straight once more and rolled first one shoulder, and then the other. He raked a hand across his face, claws tracing the edge of his scars, and left it there a moment; behind his fingers, his expression was impossible to discern. With the return of his composure he had locked away his thoughts once more, and a wall now stood between them.

It felt like an eternity passed before Oralech spoke once more. He lowered his hand, and then, in a very carefully-even tone, said, “Relay to them a message for me, little shadow.”

“Y-Yes,” the Reader whispered, struggling to keep a steady footing. Their legs were trembling, too weak to support them. Tears stung at the corners of their eyes, though they dared not lift a hand to wipe them away. “Yes, of c-course, I’ll—”

Oralech stepped closer and the Reader’s mouth shut so hard and so fast their teeth clacked together audibly. But it was one step, and one step only; he made no attempt to lash out or attack. The violence in him seemed to have bled away into nothing, or else been locked up tight where it could not burst free.

Instead, he tilted his head, an almost curious cast to his expression as he looked the Reader over. “Tell them… Tell them I shall have my night,” he said, and then his hands uncurled from their tight grip.

Oralech stalked across to the door, hooves thudding hollowly across the wagon's worn floorboards. He had to duck when he reached the door, and he pulled it open with ease. Wind and rain immediately howled within the wagon, gusting through the open doorway so hard that Oralech had to brace himself for a moment.

He turned to stare at the Reader over one hunched shoulder, pyrelight eyes narrowed and still burning. " _I shall have my night,_ " he repeated, voice little more than a deep bass growl — and then he stepped out into the dark, and was gone.

Numb and hollow, the Reader slid to the floor, little more than a boneless heap against the wall. They could barely tear their eyes away from the dark, open doorway, every bone in their body convinced that any moment, Oralech would return. Their heart hammered in their chest, jackrabbit-fast and fluttering in an uneven, anxious rhythm. They barely felt the biting cold of the wind, the dampness on their cheeks that might have been rain or tears or both; they barely felt anything at all, in fact, except for the sharp, sick relief that Oralech was gone, and they were alone.

Slowly, with a strange and empty sensation brewing in their chest, the Reader brought their knees up to their chest and began to weep.

* * *

Perhaps it was hours before anyone returned, or perhaps it was only minutes; either way, they were unaware of it until they heard voices outside, hushed but still just about audible over the wind. The Reader uncurled, joints gone stiff from spending so long curled in a corner, and scrubbed at their face with their hands. They felt fragile, like a breeze might be enough to scatter them like so much ash. But they could not hide in the wagon forever: if the others had returned, they needed to know—

_Oralech._

Their progress to the door was slow — hampered by the pain stabbing up along the side of their knee, reaching as high as their hip, as low as the bones of their foot — but nevertheless the Reader stumbled and staggered across the wagon, grasping at anything nearby for support. They finally reached the doorway and heaved it open, leaning heavily against it.

They wanted to speak, to tell them — but the words wouldn’t come, lodged in the back of their throat as if they’d swallowed something unpleasant. Volfred was speaking to Bertrude and to Hedwyn, with Ti’zo nestled on his shoulder adding his own chirping commentary. He glanced up and stopped mid-sentence, gesturing hands going still.

“Reader,” he said, brow drawing low, “are you well? You seem… out of sorts, my kin.” He lowered one hand; when he stepped forward, the other reached out to aid them down from the blackwagon’s deck. They took the help willingly, clinging to his outstretched hand for balance. They still felt shivery, unsettled, with Oralech’s words still ringing between their ears and leaving all else muffled and strange.

Hedwyn’s arm settled around their shoulders. The contact pulled them from their own mind, the warm weight giving them something to tether their drifting thoughts to. The Reader reached up with the opposite hand, their fingers skimming Hedwyn’s in pale imitation of the gesture they’d made back in the cabin. This time, they did not lower them.

“D-Did any of you see Oralech?” they asked, gaze flicking between the four others, who all shook their heads. “He was — he was here. In the wagon.”

It was difficult to pick up below the sound of rain on the awning overhead, but the Reader heard Volfred’s breath stutter for a moment. Ti’zo made a clicking chirp, shivering in an attempt to fluff up his drenched fur — if Oralech was still around, the little imp would give him a piece of his mind. The Reader, too weary and wrung-out to respond, could only nod.

Bertrude made a thoughtful humming noise, tapping her claws against her chin. “But what did he desire from thee?” she asked, her gaze fixed on the Reader, mirrored manyfold by the miniature serpents clustered around the crown of her head. It reminded them, uncomfortably, of when Oralech had stared them down in the wagon.

“He wanted me t-to pass on a message,” they replied. “He said… he said he would ‘have his n-night’, whatever that means.” They paused, the hand not holding on to Hedwyn’s dropping to knead slowly at the side of their aching thigh. “Th-that was all he said.”

It was a lie, and they knew Volfred could Read as much from them, from the way his eyes narrowed. But they were familiar with the touch of his thoughts against their own, by now, and before she’d left, Pamitha had helped them with certain techniques meant for mindfulness that proved quite useful against anyone trying to pry… even him. They met Volfred’s stare with a tired, glazed-over look, but the walls around their thoughts and memories was solid.

He did not react outwardly to the way they shielded themself from him — instead, he cleared his throat, startling Ti’zo into almost falling from his perch. “I believe you,” he said plainly. He looked to the others in turn. “We had best check the wagon for signs of tampering. Oralech is —” and here Volfred paused, eyes closing for a moment as he inhaled sharply “—unwell, as of late. I worry what it might occur to him to do, given the chance.”

Bertrude nodded once, her serpents swaying with the motion, before slithering off to the far side of the wagon through the rain-churned mud. Volfred climbed the steps and vanished inside, pulling the door shut behind him with a dull _thunk_ that rattled the wagon. That left only the Reader and Hedwyn, huddled together beneath the awning.

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Hedwyn’s voice was pitched low, and his brows knitted together in concern. His arm stayed where it was across the Reader’s shoulders — they felt quite secure and safe under it — but he turned slightly, his other hand lifting to cup a weathered palm against their cheek.

The Reader sighed, pressing just a little into Hedwyn’s touch. “He d-didn’t,” they confirmed, eyes slipping closed. Exhaustion dragged at them, like a weight tied around each of their limbs, but they forced themself to remain standing. The seconds ticked by in silence before they opened their eyes again, looking up at Hedwyn. “I was t-terrified, but he didn’t lay a hand on me.”

Hedwyn smiled, the pad of his thumb tracing slowly over the curve of the Reader’s cheek. “That’s good. I’m just glad you’re all right.” He chewed on his lip for a moment, slowly lowering his hand. “If you’d been hurt…”

“But I wasn’t.” The Reader’s own lips quirked up into a smile, their hand moving to rest over the top of Hedwyn’s, keeping it in place just a little longer.

Just as they opened their mouth to say something else, the door to the blackwagon opened once more, and the two nomads sprung away from each other so suddenly the Reader swayed unsteadily. They felt better than they had been when they’d stepped out of the wagon, but they still felt a little vague and disconnected — it took them a moment to realise both Volfred and Bertrude had returned, Ti’zo now looking drier and a little happier for it.

“We inspected the wagon for signs of tampering,” Bertrude said, steepling her fingers before her. “We found naught out of the ordinary… our many charms and wards are still intact, as well.” She looked to Volfred, who nodded.

“The interior of the wagon is undamaged as well. Ti’zo tells me the drive-imps are as calm as they could be… for imps, at least.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Still, we had best be on our guard.”

With that, matters turned to preparing for the Rite, which was soon to commence. The Reader spent the bulk of that time sitting on the blackwagon’s steps, their copy of the Book sitting across their knees, their fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against the front cover and its glass orb.

The problem was that it didn't feel _real_. None of it, from the moment they'd stepped into the wagon to the moment Oralech had departed. Had any of it actually happened? Or had they simply made the whole thing up, a lack of restful sleep catching up with them and inventing a confrontation where there had been none? Their skin prickled uncomfortably, and they looked down to where their own chewed-on nails had nevertheless dug into their palms and left angry red marks in their wake. The only physical reminder of Oralech’s presence.

It would be an easy, simple explanation; it would neatly solve the question of why the Reader had been the only one to see Oralech at all...

...and yet. And yet. It had _felt_ so real — the heat of Oralech's fury and his grief like a tidal wave; the way the wagon had quaked when he slammed his hand into the wall; the sheer presence of him, large and looming and his aura threatening to crush them under that weight. It was difficult to force themself to believe that the whole thing had happened only in their head, a fabrication and nothing more.

Worse: if they were losing their mind like this, could they still conduct the Rites? If they could not tell reality from imagination, what did that mean for their presence in the Nightwings?

They pushed the thoughts aside and themself to their feet. Whether Oralech had been present or not was irrelevant, now, as the darkening sky revealed the first hints of distant pinprick starlight. The Rite was soon to commence, and they had to be utterly focused; they could fall apart later.

Perhaps Oralech was right, and he _would_ have his night… but the Nightwings would have many more.


End file.
